[ Feeling it is always the worst, isn't it? Before Bucciarati, Abbacchio had done everything he could to numb those feelings he felt – the overwhelming grief and pain, the crushing guilt of being the one to survive, knowing he wasn't supposed to be. That because of the consequences of a singular misguided and stupid decision, a good man had lost his life; a family had lost someone they deeply cared for.
How long had he spent in a blurry haze of consciousness? With days and weeks passing by in no time at all, barely aware of his actions as he desperately sought a way out of the pit of suffering he'd made for himself – not that he'd have ever acted on it, not really. In a way, perhaps that's what all the drinking was about, more than just a way to numb everything down, but an elaborate slow suicide.
And then, in a gloomy street, while the rain poured down around him; Bucciarati appeared. A stark contrast to the rest of his surroundings, and to his drunken gaze, the man was illuminated, and it seemed even the rain itself couldn't touch him, creating an odd halo around his silhouette. He knows that's not the case; it was just the street lamps and his umbrella. The image is still ingrained into his memory, as though he were sober; it is as vivid and as clear as Bucciarati's words.
"Don't die bound by your past." ]
It may be cliche, but… It won't always feel like that. [ He's pensive as he speaks, quiet. ] It never truly goes away, but it gets smaller, easier to manage. That doesn't mean there won't still be days when it's just as big, just as consuming, but it won't happen as often. At least… in my experience.
cw alcohol abuse, references to suicidal ideation
[ Feeling it is always the worst, isn't it? Before Bucciarati, Abbacchio had done everything he could to numb those feelings he felt – the overwhelming grief and pain, the crushing guilt of being the one to survive, knowing he wasn't supposed to be. That because of the consequences of a singular misguided and stupid decision, a good man had lost his life; a family had lost someone they deeply cared for.
How long had he spent in a blurry haze of consciousness? With days and weeks passing by in no time at all, barely aware of his actions as he desperately sought a way out of the pit of suffering he'd made for himself – not that he'd have ever acted on it, not really. In a way, perhaps that's what all the drinking was about, more than just a way to numb everything down, but an elaborate slow suicide.
And then, in a gloomy street, while the rain poured down around him; Bucciarati appeared. A stark contrast to the rest of his surroundings, and to his drunken gaze, the man was illuminated, and it seemed even the rain itself couldn't touch him, creating an odd halo around his silhouette. He knows that's not the case; it was just the street lamps and his umbrella. The image is still ingrained into his memory, as though he were sober; it is as vivid and as clear as Bucciarati's words.
"Don't die bound by your past." ]
It may be cliche, but… It won't always feel like that. [ He's pensive as he speaks, quiet. ] It never truly goes away, but it gets smaller, easier to manage. That doesn't mean there won't still be days when it's just as big, just as consuming, but it won't happen as often. At least… in my experience.
[ You just have to let the right people in. ]